


Colour Bleeding Through

by TheSevenPercentSolution



Series: Four In The Morning [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, John's POV just in case that wasn't immediately clear, M/M, Uptick of hope at the end, established John/Sherlock, oh god the angst, tackling immediate post-reichenbach John headspace, tw: suicidal ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-30
Updated: 2014-09-30
Packaged: 2018-02-19 09:44:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2383727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSevenPercentSolution/pseuds/TheSevenPercentSolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Hollowed out and broken, a brittle husk sapped of all vitality.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Colour Bleeding Through

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, hello there! Have a thing. Yes, *points to self* Not dead. *Points to post* Not usual FitM format. If there is such a thing as a format for these.

He can't speak for want and a lack of love now lost.  
So he turns to silence. And stillness.  
Hours frittered away in motionless contemplation, rumination, self castigation.  
Rousing only the bare minimum required for daily functioning.  
It is ceaseless, this dull sucking ache.  
How can something hurt which no longer exists?  
  
The consideration, quiet focused contemplation of a neat brass casing punching through bone brings a smile; soft and bitter sweet.  
Alien to his features, twisting lips all the same.  
A perfect, cordite laced chaser to the ashen taste which fills his mouth.  
The work of but a moment, a metallic click and blessed peace would reign.  
Limbs go weak with the mere thought of relief from constant agony of phantom pain.

He's been here before; world washed grey and muted.  
An endless stretch of utter nothing.  
Hollowed out and broken, a brittle husk sapped of all vitality.  
So pervasive, colour is but a memory brushing against fingers which no longer reach.  


But he remains, lost in remembrance of sharp eyes and joyful madness.  
Time all the worse for knowledge of what was held, fragile, in palms far too aware of the enormity of what they cradled.  
A heart thought atrophied by many including its owner.  
Turns out that heart was great indeed.  
The heart of the best man he knew.

So he sits.  
Still.  
In silence.  
And waits for colour to bleed through.

**Author's Note:**

> Kind of a sorry/not sorry moment. Have had this sitting in my drafts folder for what feels like aeons. Finally worked up the balls to post my musings on post Fall John's headspace.
> 
> ...
> 
> My poor, depressed, angry little man.  
> \--------------  
> Thank you for reading this idiocy. ^__^
> 
> _________________
> 
> Also, for those unaware which will be nearly anyone who is kind enough to read this, I have a Tumblr. Surprised? Probably not. A lot of randomness on there; angry tags over Bandersnatch Cobblesnoot's face, flailing about art and occasional updates on my life. Not much about my writing, what little of it I do these days. 
> 
> You can find me at thesevenpercentsolution.co.vu, come say hi. Or lurk. Or whatever.


End file.
